


Street Smart

by Galadriel



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Ghouls, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: Cuffed to the steering wheel and abandoned by Ib during a stakeout, Greg is caught off guard by a powerful Kindred.
Relationships: Gregory Demetrios/Nines Rodriguez
Kudos: 13
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	Street Smart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> Set during the Season 4 epilogues.
> 
> I do not speak Greek. Not even a little. According to the internet, "αι γαμισου" is the equivalent of "fuck you" and "σκατα να φας και πεθανεις" means "eat shit and die." I am banking on the correctness of strangers on this one, so... yep.
> 
> Savageseraph, you wanted Greg/Nines, and I tried my best to deliver. I really hope you enjoy this fic! This is the only New Year's Resolution I've ever kept. ^_~

The worst part was the twinge in his shoulder, the sharp flutter of overworked muscle repeatedly reminding him of the way he'd nearly wrenched it out of its socket as he yanked at the cuffs and the steering wheel. 

You'd think this whole ghoulish nonsense would give him some kind of super-strength or invulnerability to pain, but if the fuckin' steering wheel was anything to go by, all it meant was that he was marginally better at pulling hard enough to wear shallow grooves in the vinyl _before_ his whole arm started to protest. 

Greg tipped his head backwards, taking a grim sort of satisfaction from the dull "thud" as it connected with the seat's headrest. After a moment, he rolled his head to the side, taking in the inexplicably scarred ceiling, the crack spidering across the windshield, and the patches of darkness where fingers had rubbed at chrome knobs until the silver wore away. No, the worst part wasn't the flickering spasms of abused muscle. It wasn't even the cuff that kept him tethered to the wheel, or the oddly distressing feeling of Ib's betrayal that settled uneasily in his stomach. 

No, the worst part was the goddamn lighter that was just out of reach on the passenger side floor.

It glinted at him in what little moonlight filtered through the car windows. Taunting. Teasing. He could taste the ghost of tingling tobacco-tinged warmth on his tongue and in his throat, promising calmness and clarity of mind, two things he desperately needed in these fucked-up times. 

Two things he could definitely use before Ib came back. 

_If_ she came back. Christ, what if the goddamn blanks they were supposed to be watching found him first?

What if _that_ was why she'd left?

Fucksakes, he'd felt some kind of kinship with her, too. Maybe that was what happened when you when from ghoul to kindred. Maybe the first thing to go was any sense of human connection.

The knot of disappointment in his stomach began to uncoil into something dark and sour. He could taste it creeping up into his throat, curling around his esophagus, curdling his last lingering hope that Ib hadn't abandoned him to his fate.

" _God fucking dammit!_ " Greg lunged for his lighter, flailing and stretching, growling and reaching, yanking and struggling against the confines of steel and flesh. His fingertips brushed against the lighter's face, the roughness of engraved words inscribed by his grandmother for his grandfather (in a language he never bothered to learn) skidding across the pads of his index and middle fingers as the whole skittered further away, an extra inch that might as well have been the breadth of a yard. 

"αι γαμισου." _Those_ were words he had most certainly learned at his grandmother's knee. "σκατα να φας και πεθανεις!" He spat at the lighter, certain now it was conspiring against him alongside every other fuckin' object in this goddamn shitty world. Jerking himself upright, his head hit the headrest once again, but this time the dull "thud" did nothing more than herald the arrival of a slow pulse of pain behind his temples. 

Greg squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the headache that threatened. When he got out of here, he was going to go on the biggest godforsaken rampage--

"Those are some fairly uncouth words for a Rose's little errand boy." The voice was warm with amusement, a sharp contrast to the cool air Greg was suddenly and embarrassingly aware of, wafting its way all the way down his left side. He looked up into disarmingly gentle brown eyes, the corners crinkled to match the smile on the man's lips. 

Nines Rodriguez. _The Baron Rodriguez_ , nonchalantly leaning over the open car door, looking down at Greg as if he hadn't silently stalked his prey to this place, as if he weren't half a heartbeat away from tearing Greg limb from limb.

_At least I'd be free of the cuff, then_ , Greg thought wryly. 

He cleared his throat and inclined his head forward, acutely aware of the way the movement exposed his neck. "Baron."

Nines' smile grew larger even as he waved away Greg's deference. "And what is Nelli's newest flower doing conspiring with a Camarilla sheriff?"

Glancing back up at Nines, still hovering above him, Greg could see the pointed threat in the flash of fangs just beneath Nine's curled lips. As gentle as the words were, they still held a raw power that sent shivers up and down Greg's spine. He swallowed heavily.

"Keeping a friend company. Nothing more." Greg squinted a little as he played that back in his head. "I mean... there's no conspiracy here. Just... just catching up on old times." He nodded.

Nines leaned a little further into the car, the bulk of his body taking up much of Greg's space, the smell of leather and musk stealing the bulk of Greg's oxygen. Involuntarily, he twitched a little as Nines traced the edge of the handcuff, fingertips brushing a pathway lightly across Greg's wrist. "And that's going well, is it?"

"Uh, sure, absolutely." The chuckle that bubbled up from Greg's throat didn't sound at all nervous, he was sure of it. Just like the sudden shuddering, jerking movement of his knee didn't mark him as uneasy at all. "Ib's just stepped out for a moment, getting herself a quick bite, I'm sure, and she'll be back any minute. Any minute at all." To his own credit, he didn't give in to the impulse to glance out the passenger window, willing Ib to return before Nines ever so casually ripped his throat out.

Would Nelli be pissed at his death? Most certainly. Of that, Greg had no doubt. But that was cold comfort when he'd still be as dead as a doornail. From ghoul to gone in point-six seconds. _Gone Ghoul_. Greg couldn't quite contain the short bark of hysterical laughter that slipped over his tongue and between his teeth. 

"Relax." A cool palm came to rest against the nape of Greg's neck. Nines' hands were large, and as soothing as the touch was, Greg couldn't quite shake the image of Nines' fingers wrapping around his throat and crushing his windpipe. "Shh. It's fine. I'm not planning on harming you." Nines' rueful chuckle reverberated in Greg's ear, his breath caressing its whorls. "I have no intention of crossing your mistress. The last thing I need is Nelli up my ass."

_And a very fine ass it is_ , Greg's brain supplied, the fuckin' traitor. He wondered, distantly, when he'd had the time to catalogue the individual physical characteristics of this particular Baron. 

"Yeah, of course not. For sure. That was never in any doubt." In his short time as a ghoul, Greg had been schooled in many a kindred's story. And that included the tale of the great Nines Rodriguez and his fabled defeat of a werewolf. _A werewolf_ , each storyteller had whispered, their reverence crystal clear in each quiet voice. _A werewolf_. The man was a beast wrapped up in a civilized package, sinew and muscle and bone barely contained, and Greg would count his lucky stars if he walked away unscathed. He shifted in his seat, head full of images of a bloody, growling Nines baring his fangs as he grappled with razors wrapped in fur, malevolence minted under the moon. He could feel his cock hardening as his thoughts took a turn towards the perverse, the promise of pain mingling with pleasure. 

He swallowed against the impulse, but it couldn't be kept down. "Bite me," he murmured, then licked his lips. " _Bite me_."

Nines' thumb rubbed slowly up and down the side of Greg's neck. Greg felt the slight increase in pressure that had him tipping his head to the side, exposing even more flesh to Nines' eyes. "That seems a little... unwise," he murmured. "Or have you taken on the Roses' preference for a bit of rough to break up the long nights and longer days?" He leaned in, and Greg exhaled heavily as Nines rubbed a cool cheek against Greg's flushed skin. "You're a bit young to be already experiencing their longings." 

Greg shook his head, impatience beginning to war with anticipation and fear. He reached up with his free hand, grasped Nines' wrist, and drew it downward to his groin. "Does that answer your question?" His voice was grating, raspy, full of need and desire. Covering Nines' hand with his own, he thrust upward against Nines' palm. "Just do it." 

Greg whimpered as Nines ground his palm against his fly. The friction barely took the edge off, but it was a promise, a good promise, that the marks Nines would leave on him would be satisfying and survivable. He'd tangle with the werewolf killer, and walk away-- _crawl away_ alive.

He writhed under Nines' touch, biting his own lip, muffling all but the most urgent of noises. He heard something that sounded like Nines speaking, but it broke off into a soft stream of cursing. Eyes shut, Greg felt Nines' fingers at his throat, a frisson of fear giving way to understanding as his buttons came free and his shirt was opened. 

The first moment was consumed with a blinding pain, the feel of hot wires pushed past resisting skin. Greg's whole body convulsed, every muscle rejecting the horror of the moment, the violence of that first plunge into the unknown, the press of fangs into flesh. 

Yet hardly a half-second later, a warmth flooded through Greg's limbs, washing away pain and suffering, washing away the _memory_ of pain and leaving nothing but an endless winding and unwinding of lust. 

Distantly, he felt strong arms curving around him, picking him up and cradling him close like a doll. He moaned deeply, reaching out for Nines, hardly noticing his steering wheel tether, and certainly not caring. There was nothing now except the ebb and flow of his own lifeblood, the desire to give in to desire, to let himself float along in a sea of ecstasy, each pull onward the tug of a tide, the rising crest of a wave building towards release.

Fuck, he loved this. Loved it like an addict loves the high, and willing to chase it to the ends of the earth. 

He groaned, light-headed and shuddering. He was harder than he could ever remember being, hips rising and falling in jerking movements, body tossing against each new wave of pleasure. The fingers of his free hand curled in what must have been soft cotton, and he gasped, cried out, and fell into unending warmth.

As his body tensed and tightened, as he gasped out a garbled name, as his cock twitched and he came, he heard a familiar voice. 

Female, he supposed. Someone... someone close to him? Someone important? He didn't know anymore. He wasn't sure he cared to know.

She sounded angry. "Greg? Greg! ...What the _fuck_ are you do--"

And then there was nothing. No pain. Just pleasure.

And darkness.


End file.
